Sunday, 1 September 2013


This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.

September, 1918 by the Modernist poet Amy Lowell is a very enlightening poem. It gives a sense of hope and imagination. It was how the writer wanted to see the world in the year 1918, during the World War I. Amy Lowell was painting a picture of how the world should have been compared to the way it really was.

Here  you can find a detailed analysis of this poem.

For books are more than books, they are the life, the very heart and core of ages past, the reason why men worked and died, the essence and quintessence of their lives.

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